


Tiptoe If You Must

by Ser_Comfrance (Disniq)



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Past Sex Worker Eggsy, Post-Canon Fix-It, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-02-04 02:20:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12761088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Disniq/pseuds/Ser_Comfrance
Summary: Eggsy ain’t a praying kinda guy, but that doesn’t stop him from muttering, “Please god, please god, please god,” into the echoing abyss on the phone line before it connects.It only rings twice, then-“Eggsy, babe, is that you?”Or; It gets worse before it gets better.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys. This is my first published work of fanfiction in almost 15 years and I am super nervous tbh.  
> Concrit always welcome, and this is un-beta'd so if you spot any glaring mistakes please do let me know. Enjoy!

　　Eggsy ain’t a praying kinda guy, but that doesn’t stop him from muttering, “Please god, please god, please god,” into the echoing abyss on the phone line before it connects.  
　　  
　　He’s never been more thankful that the world’s elite class of trillionaire megalomaniacs prioritize a good wifi signal as much as when the line clicks over and actually rings, in the middle of the Cambodian fucking jungle.  
　　  
　　It only rings twice, then-  
　　  
　　“Eggsy, babe, is that you?”  
　　  
　　His knees turn to jelly, the rush of relief makes him dizzy. His arse hits the floor before he consciously decides to move.  
　　  
　　“Yeah,” he croaks. “Yeah, Mum, it’s me.”  
　　  
　　He hadn’t dared to think, wasn’t a hundred percent sure she’d stayed clean, not when she insisted her and Daisy move into her own place again after Dean and his goons were put away. He hasn’t visited in too long, hasn’t kept his promise to look after them like he should’ve.  
　　  
　　“I saw the house on the news! And the shop!” her voice is shrill, panicked. He’s let a lot of people down this past few weeks, but his mum is probably still top of that list. Her breathing is ragged when she continues, “I thought you were dead.”  
　　  
　　“I know,” he says. His eyes are hot, his chest hollow. Cat’s out of the bag. “I’m so, so sorry, mum, and I’ll explain, I promise I will. But. You’re okay, yeah?”  
　　  
　　Eggsy doesn’t want to bring up the drugs, dredge up all that old guilt because he doesn’t blame her, never could. He thinks she gets it anyway, her voice goes soft.  
　　  
　　“Yeah, we’re fine,” she half laughs, like he’s being daft. “Are _you_ alright, love?”  
　　  
　　“Good,” he tries to say, but it’s stuck in his chest. He can feel his chin wobble, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Good. Great.”  
　　  
　　He doesn’t want to end the call, but he’s at a loss. Anything he could say will end with him either confessing everything to his mum right now over the phone in one massive verbal spew, or the emotional restraint he’s somehow managed to keep in place will crumble and he’ll have a full on breakdown in this fucking ridiculous Americana nightmare. Neither are things he fancies right now.  
　　  
　　He savours the sound of her breath for a second longer.  
　　  
　　“Look, mum,” he says, and he can hear The Voice kick in, formal and polite. Roxy calls it his customer service voice. _Called. Fuck_. He makes a conscious effort to turn it off again, he doesn’t want to be that impersonal, professional guy with his own damn mother, no matter how many times the world tries to end. “I’ve got some shit to deal with right now. Serious shit. I’ll call when I can. Love you.”  
　　  
　　Eggsy hangs up before she can answer, before he starts properly bawling. He’s still stuck in hostile territory, with a single ally, and no tech support or handler. He needs to keep his shit together until he’s sure Agent Whiskey was an outlier.  
　　  
　　 _Then you may shed a tear in private._  
　　  
　　Shit. That ain’t helping. Okay, focus.  
　　  
　　Objective one (Obtain information that might be relevant - contacts, aliases, and potential leads) and objective two (Team Extraction) are easy enough. _Nab Poppy’s personal laptop, find Harry and get the fuck outta here._  
　　  
　　Objective three is a bit more debatable. Rendezvous with Statesman and ascertain their level of trustworthiness which may or may not end in a 10 on 2 fire fight? Avoid Statesman, fly back home, and attempt a two man rebuild of their entire organisation? Head directly back to his mothers house and hide under the duvet for a week watching Jeremy Kyle? He’ll hash it out later.  
　　  
　　First things first.  
　　  
　　He’d wandered outside in some weird attempt at picking up a better signal, and now the brightness is giving him a headache. Or possibly that’s the adrenaline crash.  
　　  
　　The gleaming chromed diner doesn’t help, unnatural searing reflections cutting through the lush greenery and dry sand. The heat is already making the stink of drying blood worse.  
　　  
　　Eggsy’s stomach churns, gurgling obscenely. He hasn’t eaten in a while. When he pushes through the doors, the bell above him tingles as his eyes find the rank mass of minced flesh on the counter and he feels like he’d happily never eat again. A backward version of Pavlov’s dogs; ring the bell, ladies and gentlemen, and Eggsy’s gonna puke.  
　　  
　　Salad has never seemed more appealing. Viva las vegan, indeed.  
　　  
　　Poppy’s desk is tucked over to the side of the room, thank fuck, and is also very helpfully organised. Laptop neatly in the middle, phone slightly to the right, stationary laid out in tidy little rows to the left including, yup, a thumb drive shaped like a fucking ice cream cone. He pockets the phone and usb, tucks the laptop under his arm and leaves without glancing back at the counter.  
　　  
　　The air outside is thick curtain of heat after the cool air conditioned diner. There are times when the three piece suit seems wholly impractical. His shirt is sticking to his skin in seconds, fresh sweat breaking out on his shoulders and back.  
　　  
　　The place reeks of shit and blood. His hands are shaking.  
　　  
　　“James Bond never had to deal with this crap,” Eggsy grumbles to no one.  
　　  
　　If he’s clutching the laptop a little tighter than necessary, that’s nobody else’s fucking business.  
　　  
　　Eggsy is back by the doughnut shop before he notices Harry stood just outside the gate, back to the compound, staring out into the jungle. He’s got the destroyed briefcase and umbrella piled neatly by his feet, the baseball bat minesweeper is cradled in his hands.  
　　  
　　Harry doesn’t react to his approach. He does twitch when Eggsy claps him on the shoulder. That’s... Different.  
　　  
　　“I’m sorry,” Eggsy says, dropping the hand. “This was my fault.”  
　　  
　　“Nonsense, my boy,” Harry says, cool and collected. Like he didn’t have his whole world turned upside down in under a week. “Merlin’s been in the life a long time. He knew the risks, and he did it anyway. The sign of a damn good agent.” He clears his throats delicately, hefts the bat in his hands up a bit more. “If anything is to blame, it’s this useless object.”  
　　  
　　Eggsy wants to argue, wants to shout and scream and punch shit until the tense gurgling lump in his stomach eases, but then Elton fucking John comes sprinting through the gate, kicking the shit out of a mangled robot dog head.  
　　  
　　Wearing a glittery, rainbow feathered costume and platform heels.  
　　  
　　What the fuck even is Eggsy’s life anymore.  
　　  
　　Elton John boots the robot head into the forest, then stops dead. He stares at the smeared bloody body parts trailing off into the trees, and Eggsy waits for him to pass out or throw up.  
　　  
　　Instead, he takes a deep breath, and then blows a raspberry. Eggsy can almost feel a laugh work it’s way up his chest.  
　　  
　　“It’s been a really fucked up day, gents,” Elton fucking John says, toeing at a stray arm. “What the shitting hell happened out here?”  
　　  
　　Harry, mouth turned down at the corners but otherwise looking serious and stoic, says, “That, Elton, was my oldest friend’s last hurrah.”  
　　  
　　And Eggsy was wrong, it isn’t any kind of humour burning up his throat. It’s bile, sour and hot and-  
　　  
　　“Went out with a bang, at least.”  
　　  
　　 _Dingle-ing-ding_ , tingles the bell, and Eggsy retches into the sand.

　　******

　　When he comes to, he can still smell the meaty, sour smell of decomposition. The familiar sounds of rushing air barely contained by a thin sheet of plastic and fibreglass tell him he’s on a plane. He doesn’t want to open his eyes, but the turbulence jerks him near out of his seat.  
　　  
　　“Not very graceful for a future Consort,” Tilde’s sweet voice says above him as she takes his hand to help him up.  
　　  
　　There’s a huge diamond on her ring finger and as he blinks at it stupidly, a glob of thick red drips right in the centre of the cushion cut.  
　　  
　　She smiles brilliantly at him from beneath her ruined, hollow eye sockets. The blood oozes down her face, into her mouth. Still she smiles.  
　　  
　　“I guess you were right, Eggsy,” says Roxy’s voice from the blackened, smouldering husk sat next to him. “Posh girls do like a bit of rough.”  
　　  
　　She laughs, Tilde titters. A neat row of charred, unrecognisable men in suits chuckle without ever moving their melted faces. The husk that sounds like Roxy grabs his left arm. It burns, but she won’t let go.  
　　  
　　“Maybe our boy’s getting cold feet,” Merlin sneers from atop a limbless, tattered torso. “Never could live up to you, Galahad.”  
　　  
　　And there’s Harry Hart, sitting in a beige leather chair that Eggsy can see through the gaping hole in his head. His nose is wrinkled like he stepped in something distasteful, his eye never leaving Eggsy’s.  
　　  
　　“It just wouldn’t do to have a rent boy married to a Princess.”  
　　  
　　Eggsy sits bolt upright just in time to dribble bile down his shirt.  
　　  
　　Nice.  
　　  
　　******

　　Eggsy manages to clean himself up without getting up, because his left arm is hooked up to a saline solution. He’s alone in the cabin, but someone’s left a bottle of water on the seat to his right and it’s sealed, so he downs half of it.  
　　  
　　It doesn’t really help the cotton wool texture of his tongue, and he drinks it too fast for his still tetchy insides, but it washes away the taste of stomach lining and gin so. Win. Partial win, whatever. He’ll take what he can get today.  
　　  
　　His phone is missing and he might have panicked if this hadn’t obviously been the Statesman plane, pool table and all. Harry’s jacket is tossed over the bar by a mostly empty whisky glass, Poppy’s laptop is hooked up to the analysis hub behind it, and somebody obviously cared about giving him medical treatment more than chaining him up.  
　　  
　　He lets himself breathe for a minute in the soothing rattle of the jet around him.  
　　  
　　Nightmares are an occupational hazard, he knows this well. Fireworks still make him think of skull fragments and the smell of brain fluid, and the sound of gunshots he isn’t expecting make him flinch.  
　　  
　　Dreams never felt so personal before, though.  
　　  
　　He’s almost managed to settle his stomach, if not his mind, when Elton John appears to chuck a sick bag at him.  
　　  
　　“Bit late, pal.”  
　　  
　　“Thought that counts,” Elton shrugs, and slumps gracelessly into the empty seat. He’s thankfully changed out of the chicken suit. “Listen lad, sorry about before. It’s been a really fucked up year.”  
　　  
　　“Fuckin’ tell me about it, mate.” _Mate_. Elton fucking John. _What even_. “Thanks, I guess.”  
　　  
　　It occurs to Eggsy that he doesn’t know where they are, how long they’ve been flying, or where Harry is hiding. It also occurs to Eggsy that he’s supposed to be a professional spy.  
　　  
　　Obviously not a very good one at the moment, as Elton John the capital C Civilian takes one look at him and says, “Your friend is up front.”  
　　  
　　The wash of relief almost knocks him sick again. He hadn’t realised how much that thought was nagging, that Harry might be gone again. He needs to see for himself, suddenly. Viscerally needs to know, _is he okay?_  
　　  
　　“What the fuck, he shouldn’t be flying anything with one fucking eye,” Eggsy says , yanking the cannula out of his arm and standing.  
　　  
　　“Autopilot did the job while he fixed you up a bit, but we’re entering American airspace anytime.” Elton laughs then, a proper chuckle. “Listen to me, going on like I know what the fuck is going on. Anyway, he’s doing a fine job of being the gallant handsome hero while you get your beauty sleep.”  
　　  
　　 “He does that,” Eggsy says, more eloquently than he feels.  
　　  
　　He strides towards the cockpit as quickly as he can without running, and clicks the door carefully into place without slamming it.  
　　  
　　It’s not his proudest moment, he’ll admit. It’s made a little better when he turns to see Harry lounging in the pilots chair, watching him carefully. It’s still so fuckin’ good to see him, alive and mostly well. Something eases in his chest.  
　　  
　　“Shouldn’t you be looking out the window? You’re already at a disadvantage, pal.”  
　　  
　　Harry’s mouth ticks up a fraction.  
　　  
　　“I assure you the autopilot is doing all the heavy lifting. I’m mostly here to talk to the towers.”  
　　  
　　On cue, the radio crackles.  
　　  
　　 _“A330, this is Control. You are not scheduled for landing.”_  
　　  
　　“Apologies, Control,” Harry says smoothly, in a Southern American accent. “We’re a private detail for _Sir_ Elton John. We have fuel to engage holding pattern, and request landing when there’s room on the ramp. Sooner the better, Control, you know these entitled Brits.”  
　　  
　　 _“Yeah, yeah, I hear you A330. I’ll see what I can do. Control out.”_  
　　  
　　Eggsy’s still processing - because what the _fuck_ , Harry? - when Harry dips his fingers gracefully into his breast pocket and tugs out Eggsy’s phone.  
　　  
　　“You had several missed calls from the Swedish Embassy. I told them you were presently unavailable, but I gather your lady friend is recovering well.”  
　　  
　　Eggsy’s feels the blood rush to his head so fast his fingers go numb, and he fumbles the phone. He manages to stop it from clattering to the floor, just, but catches his finger at just the right angle to rip part of his nail away.  
　　  
　　“Fuck, fuck,” he says, and sticks the finger in his mouth to soothe the sting.  
　　  
　　He doesn’t know how to even begin to unpack his emotions right now so he doesn’t. He mumbles, “Thanks,” around his fingers, and uses his other hand to shove the phone into his pocket. He’ll deal with everything else later.  
　　  
　　Harry frowns in his general direction, probably resisting the urge to drag Eggsy for being so ungentlemanly.  
　　  
　　“So,” he says after a moment, and taps his fingers slowly and deliberately on the live feed monitor on the dash, showing Elton John snoozing in the cabin. “Were you in such a hurry to check on little old me, or are you not impressed with our guest?”  
　　  
　　 _I had to check you hadn’t gone and died again_ , he thinks. He says instead, “Well, what the fuck do you small talk about with Elton pissing John?”  
　　  
　　“I find him rather charming,” Harry says, and his eyes go soft and distant like back in that awful padded room. It’s a different side of Harry, one Eggsy doesn’t know.  
　　  
　　And, because it’s easier than thinking about literally anything else right now, Eggsy laughs.  
　　  
　　“You’re crush is showing, bruv.”  
　　  
　　“My dorm mate my first year at Eton would play Goodbye Yellow Brick Road at all hours. I may have developed a soft spot.”  
　　  
　　Eggsy snorts. Harry raises his eyebrows, a look Eggsy definitely knows means impending sarcasm, and opens his mouth to--  
　　  
　　 _“A330, this is Control. You are cleared for landing on runway 3. If you pull up to bay 28, I’ll send out a buggy for His Majesty.”_  
　　  
　　The brief respite is broken, Harry’s face sags into blank professionalism again under the weight of crushing reality. He looks pale, tired. The patch seems more prominent then just moments ago. For a few minutes there he’d almost looked like old Harry, not the disappointed dead one from his dream.  
　　  
　　Eggsy feels cold all of a sudden, right down his spine.  
　　  
　　“Sure, Control,” he says, in that stupid, fake accent, and turns back to the console. “Much appreciated.”  
　　  
　　Eggsy doesn’t stick around. He goes back to his seat in the cabin and slumps into it. He breathes into his hands for a minute. They drop altitude, and his stomach swoops uncomfortably.  
　　  
　　God, he wishes this day would end.  
　　  
　　He can feel his crumpled jacket behind his head, can feel the shape of his phone pressing into his thigh. He fishes it out and thumbs through his contacts. _Mum_ is top of his outgoing calls list. He doesn’t want to worry her any more than he already has.  
　　  
　　Underneath that is _video call, Tilde_ , almost three days ago. He deliberately doesn’t think about how long that is. Doesn’t think about the worst possible outcome, how close it had been. She’s okay. Harry said she’s okay. Breathe.  
　　  
　　The plane touches down, rattling for a moment before settling into a slow trundle across the tarmac. The phone is tossed back onto the seat.  
　　  
　　Eggsy nudges Elton’s shoulder as the plane stops fully.  
　　  
　　“W’th’fuck’s goin’ on?”  
　　  
　　“We’re here mate,” Eggsy tells him, though he doesn't actually know where ‘here’ is.  
　　  
　　Harry comes through from the cockpit and busies himself opening the cabin door.  
　　  
　　“As requested, Los Angeles International Airport.”  
　　  
　　“Ah!” Elton says, “My hero.”  
　　  
　　“Well, Elton, it’s been an interesting day,” Harry says pleasantly. “I do hope you won’t forget about those backstage passes.”  
　　  
　　“Darling, I’ll deliver them myself,” Elton John says, then leans forward and lays a wet kiss right on Harry’s cheek.  
　　  
　　Harry looks chuffed as fucking cheesecake. Eggsy’s mouth might be gaping slightly. He’s never gonna let Harry live this down.  
　　  
　　“Right. I’ll go get the plane going, then.” He takes two steps back, then stops. He thinks of his mum, smiling and happy for the first time in forever, bouncing Daisy in her arms and dancing around his - Harry’s - house to the Lion King soundtrack. “Actually, Elton, could I ask a favour?”  
　　  
　　******  
　　  
　　It’s a significantly quicker journey back to Kentucky from LA. Eggsy offers to man the plane so Harry can catch a nap, but he refuses. Eggsy reckons he regrets it now, two eternal hours into a debrief with Champ. He almost longs for the fire fight he’d imagined.  
　　  
　　“Welp,” the big man says, popping the ‘p’. “Can’t thank you boys enough. You have our significant backing in your rebuild efforts, financial and otherwise.”  
　　  
　　“Much appreciated,” Harry says, tugging at his cuffs, and Eggsy hears _Are we done, you prattling buffoon._  
　　  
　　 He thinks maybe he isn’t the only one that got the unsubtle subliminal message, because Champ claps his hands together and says, “I’ll let Ginger - beg pardon, Agent Whisky. I’ll let Agent Whisky show you to the guest rooms. Y’all must be exhausted.”  
　　  
　　“Fuckin’ knackered, mate.”  
　　  
　　Champ raises a glass at them as they stand, but remains seated. Agent Tequila gives them a sloppy salute as he passes them in the corridor. He looks significantly better than the last time Eggsy saw him, and he valiantly does not think about how Tilde’s recovering.  
　　  
　　“Just this way,” Whisky says quietly. She hasn’t said much at all since they arrived, actually. Just stood quietly and taken down their report, except to put her name forward for the open position and to politely request permission to drop the ‘e’. Whisky, not Whiskey.  
　　  
　　Eggsy supposes there must have been some major tech nerd bonding going on while he was chasing dead ends with Butch Cassidy. There’s a bone deep ache in his chest when he thinks of him and Rox, sloggin’ through training with only each other for support, so he bottles it back up. But he thinks he gets what’s got Ginger down.  
　　  
　　Eventually they reach a hallway that more resembles the Hilton than a factory, and Whisky opens a heavy wooden door with no biometric security. Harry steps right in and drops his jacket on the chair in the corner.  
　　  
　　“It’s a great deal less padded this time,” he says, deadpan.  
　　  
　　Whisky looks mortified, clutching her clipboard to her chest. Her eyes dart to Eggsy’s, looking for clues.  
　　  
　　“Ignore him,” Eggsy assures her. “He’s a bitch when he’s tired. Night, ‘arry.”  
　　  
　　“Goodnight, Eggsy. Agent Whisky.”  
　　  
　　The door clicks softly behind them as they continue to the next room.  
　　  
　　“I think he was nicer when he was the butterfly guy,” Whisky confides, and Eggsy smiles because, yeah, he probably was. But it ain’t Harry without that irritable, snarky bastard hidden under the polite veneer. But he’s still so unbelievably glad to have him back, even with everything else, his chest sometimes feels light enough for him to float away. The emotional rollercoaster is giving him whiplash.

  
　　Whisky opens the door to his room and steps aside. He goes to enter, and suddenly can’t not say anything.  
　　  
　　“Listen, Ginger- shit, sorry- Agent Whisky-”  
　　  
　　“It’s Elizabeth.”  
　　  
　　“Elizabeth. Listen. It was my fault. I was so busy mouthing off I didn’t see the mine and-”  
　　  
　　“Agent Galahad,” she says, as stern as he’s ever heard her. Commanding. He can suddenly, vividly imagine her out in the field. She’ll be great. “The _other_ Agent Galahad was fairly adamant that the equipment was faulty. Probably the gaps in the detector plate, allowing for inaccuracies in close up readings - I’m having my staff look into reworking the design but, anyway. It most certainly wasn’t your fault.”  
　　  
　　“Y’know, we got this saying back home. ‘Only a poor workman blames his tools’.”  
　　  
　　She puts a hand reassuringly on his arm and smiles a little sadly.  
　　  
　　“If you’re going to blame yourself for his death, I can’t stop you. But some of the responsibility is mine, too, and you can’t stop me either.”  
　　  
　　“Don’t be daft, you wasn’t even there!”  
　　  
　　She purses her mouth like he’s being deliberately dense. “I encouraged him to think about fieldwork not ten days ago-”  
　　  
　　“He wouldn’t’ve had to if we hadn’t gone solo-”  
　　  
　　“I also personally designed 60% of the field tech in circulation at Statesman today-”  
　　  
　　“Even-”  
　　  
　　“Including,” she adds, pointedly. “The minesweeper’s orginal concept.”  
　　  
　　He sighs, crosses his arms around his chest.  
　　  
　　“You are entitled to your grief, Mr Unwin, but don’t be so presumptuous as to deny others their own.”  
　　  
　　******  
　　  
　　They hang around for a few weeks, while Champ and the tech people get their holding company up and running.  
　　  
　　It rubs Eggsy the wrong way, having to rely on the whims of another agency after just getting used to the freedom of unattached spy work. It feels a little like what he imagines MI6 has to deal with, with the government looking over their shoulder at all times, pressing agendas and party politics. It feels like its only a matter of time until information is withheld as need-to-know until it’s too late, or personal missions are pushed as priority behind their backs. It sets him on edge near constantly, grating his nerves.  
　　  
　　Harry doesn’t seem to think much of the situation either.  
　　  
　　He doesn’t say as much, but there’s a unhappy tilt to his mouth every time Eggsy sees him.  
　　  
　　Which is rarely.  
　　  
　　He’s pleasant enough when he has to be, but it feels distinctly like he’s avoiding Eggsy. He tries to remember Elizabeth’s advice, tries not to take it personally. Harry and Merlin worked together for probably longer than Eggsy’s been alive. If Harry needs space, he can have it.  
　　  
　　Even if it does have the unfortunate consequence of leaving Eggsy alone in his own head way more often than he’s comfortable with.  
　　  
　　Between not thinking about Roxy or Merlin or any of the other agents he worked with the past year, and not answering any calls from his mum or the Swedish Embassy, he manages to find time to wallow in his own head far too often.  
　　  
　　No matter how many times Harry or Elizabeth or anyone else tries to reassure him that he shouldn’t feel guilty, it doesn’t feel any less heavy in his gut. Stepping on that mine; not noticing the prosthetic in the car; hell, not even checking Charlie-boy was properly dead back on V-day. He fucked up, and people died.  
　　  
　　Sleep doesn’t come any easier either, and at this point can’t tell if its the nightmares themselves, or the creeping anxiety he awakes with that’s worse.  
　　  
　　Agent Tequila distracts him pretty well through the day, at least.  
　　  
　　There’s a whole floor dedicated to exercise, training and rehabilitation, including a fully equipped gymnastics set-up. Pommel horses, balance beams, parallel bars.  
　　  
　　It’s like he’s 7 again, at his first regional tournament. Except there’s also a huge, fuck off trampoline course along one 300 metre wall, and then curving back on itself.  
　　  
　　Tequila is pleasant enough company, when he isn’t holding a gun to Harry through a two way mirror. And when an unfamiliar Agent asks in passing if he’s had any good squeezes lately, Tequila casually shoots him the middle finger and says, “Some o’ these backward ass folks don’t understand ‘bisexual’ don’t out and out mean ‘whore’, y’know?” And, yeah, Eggsy knows how that feels, so that goes a long way to making up for the I’mma-set-y’all-on-fire incident in his eyes.  
　　  
　　They’re half way through a race - Eggsy’s winning, but only because his form is better for nailing the landings and keeping his momentum. Those long hours practising in the ratty sports hall when he was a kid have definitely paid off.  
　　  
　　Tequila flops down onto the tramp at just the right moment to make Eggsy stumble his dismount, and while he scrambles to right himself the American lunges forward and grabs his calf. Eggsy crashes to the mat, Tequila leaps over him - “Ha, gotcha!” - and legs it for the finish line.  
　　  
　　Five runs into a best of seven with a lead of 3, Eggsy’s willing to let him have it. His knee twisted on the way down and it twinges like a bitch.  
　　  
　　Something beeps, and when Eggsy looks up, Tequila’s coming back to help him up.  
　　  
　　“Sorry ‘bout that. You alright?” He tugs Eggsy to his feet, the huge gold watch on his wrist blinking a red light.  
　　  
　　“Yeah, bruv, thanks,” Eggsy nods towards the watch. “There a problem?”  
　　  
　　“Naw,” Tequila says, casual shrug and all. He slips on his sunglasses, taps the arm a few times. “Just Champ. He wants to see you and Butterfly Man, asap.”  
　　  
　　“Harry? I dunno where he even is.”  
　　  
　　“Well, best start looking, brother. I’d hit the shower first, though.”  
　　  
　　He flips off the edge of the trampoline course like it’s nothing, and heads for the door.  
　　  
　　“Fuckin’ show off,” Eggsy says to the empty room.  
　　  
　　A shower sounds good, but he’s kind of anxious to see what warrants an immediate summons. He settles for changing his shirt, and spraying half a can of Lynx over himself. It’ll do.  
　　  
　　Harry’s been spending a lot of time with Elizabeth, working on his coordination and shit. So, first stop; the labs.  
　　  
　　Only, when he gets there, she’s sat in a sterile white room by herself. She’s at a console of at least 5 screens, mumbling at a hand-held tablet and prodding at it sporadically. He knocks on the door frame, and she waves him in without looking up.  
　　  
　　“Sorry to interrupt,” she glances up at his voice, obviously not expecting him, then her eyes flick back to her work. “Have you seen Harry?”  
　　  
　　“Have you tried calling him?”  
　　  
　　“Of course,” he snaps, because he isn’t a fucking idiot, thanks.  
　　  
　　She put her device down, and rubs her eyes with a sigh. “Sorry, that was a stupid question. It’s been a difficult week.”  
　　  
　　Eggsy takes a breath. She’s clearly busy, and he’s the intruder here, the least he can do is control his temper.  
　　  
　　“Yeah, sorry,” and to try to make up for his rudeness, he adds, “Can I help?”  
　　  
　　“How are your electronic skills?” She pokes the tablet a little rougher than strictly necessary. “This is the specs for a drone I’m designing for further investigations in Cambodia. We don’t want any more casualties via landmine, and clearly some of our other equipment wasn’t sufficient.”  
　　  
　　Eggsy gestures vaguely at the desktop screens, because no. Tech development isn’t really his bag. “And that?”  
　　  
　　“That’s the agent re-evaluation protocol.”  
　　  
　　“Oh. Joy.”  
　　  
　　“You have no idea. We have to sift through up to 50 years of personal background information on every field agent, all because of one bad egg.”  
　　  
　　Eggsy doesn’t comment.  
　　  
　　Everyone at Stateman seems to have the same opinion of the previous Agent Whiskey - A Good Guy and outstanding agent that was just a little jaded after so many years dealing with the underbelly of society, a personal grudge just got the better of him in a moment of weakness. It sounds an awful lot like what the folks back at home said about good old Chester King - “He was capital ‘O’ Old, and disillusioned. Valentine had a convincing spiel. Not an endemic problem.”  
　　  
　　Two other agents went down with the chip explosions on V-Day, along with half the Royal fuckin’ Family and three of every four serving MPs, and nobody had a bad word to say about them neither.  
　　  
　　It reeks of scapegoat the same now as it did then.  
　　  
　　“I’m no help with either, sorry.” Eggsy gives her his most charming smile. “Throw me a bone and I’ll get outta ya hair?”  
　　  
　　Elizabeth gives him the same flat, unimpressed look his mother gives him when he says he’s going out for one pint. God, he misses home.  
　　  
　　“Harry spends a lot of his time training,” she says, flipping a few pages on her clipboard. “He’s taken up daily boxing, yoga and firearms routines to improve recovery.”  
　　  
　　“Yeah,” Eggsy laughs. “Sounds like Harry.”  
　　  
　　Elizabeth fixes him with a look over the rim of the clipboard, all Agent Whisky professionalism. She wets her lips, takes a deep breath.  
　　  
　　“I don’t know if he’s told you --”  
　　  
　 _He hasn’t_ , Eggsy doesn’t say, because he really wants to hear this.  
　　  
　　“-- and I probably shouldn’t but...” Elizabeth hesitates for a moment, then purses her mouth and sighs. “Seeing as how much you wanted his memories back, I’m certain you’ll look out for him.”  
　　  
　　That’s not what he was expecting, so he just nods.  
　　  
　　“Good.” She clicks over into Doctor mode again. “With how severe the head injury was, and with more than a full year of inactivity between the physical recovery and the mental recovery... Well, he might never fully recuperate. The training will help his coordination, and muscle memory seems to be picking up the slack so far, but...”  
　　  
　　“If anyone can do it, it’s ‘arry.”  
　　  
　　She smiles at him, and it feels close to pitying. He excuses himself.  
　　  
　　******

　　Eventually, he finds Harry sequestered in a sheltered corner of the frankly ridiculous library. Eggsy isn’t sure he wants to know how they explain why a brewery needs such a fucking massive collection of priceless first editions.  
　　  
　　Harry is typing away at a laptop, squinting down at the keys and tapping them out slowly with the first two fingers of each hand. The new puppy is curled up on his feet. Eggsy approaches deliberately loudly, letting his footsteps echo on the wooden panels. Harry doesn’t react, so he probably already knew he was there. The dog wags her tail him, but doesn’t move.  
　　  
　　“A’right ‘arry?”  
　　  
　　“Not particularly,” he says, frankly. The computer makes an angry buzzing noise. It flashes up a list of incorrect spellings, one of which is ‘colour’. Harry tuts, “Americans.”  
　　  
　　“Champ wanted to see us,” Eggsy tells him, before he can restart the program. He remembers the awkward one finger typing back at Poppy’s compound. “You’re improving though, yeah.”  
　　  
　　“I suppose so,” Harry says, closing the laptop maybe a touch harder than necessary. “Once upon a time, I could happily code the pants off of Merlin, any day of the week. Now I’m taking rudimentary typing classes aimed at primary children. It’s humiliating.”  
　　  
　　“Bruv. You had a pretty fuckin’ serious head trauma. It’s a wonder you ain’t a permanent vegetable.”  
　　  
　　Harry holds the door open for him seemingly only because it allows him a full 8 second judgemental frown. Then he calls back, “Come, Hamish,” and the puppy trots after them down the hall.  
　　  
　　“You really sticking with that?” Eggsy asks. “Even though she’s a she.”  
　　  
　　“When, dear boy, did I ever strike you as the conventional type?”  
　　  
　　Which, fair enough, yeah.  
　　  
　　Eggsy hadn’t even known Merlin’s real name, which had made him feel vaguely guilty until he’d realised how little he’d worked with Merlin compared to Harry. If Harry wants to name his female dog after his best mate, who is Eggsy to judge.  
　　  
　　He’d briefly considered leaving Galahad for Harry again, and taking up Lancelot in Roxy’s honour. But it feels wrong to take something she beat him to earn in the first place. He doesn’t think Rox would appreciate having a dog named after her, either.  
　　  
　　And Tilde’s probably named it already. He’s been avoiding her calls, under the guise of his hectic work schedule, and only exchanged a few texts. He honestly couldn’t say why, except that that feels wrong too.  
　　  
　　For all that Eggsy’s missed Harry these past few weeks, he can’t think of a single thing to say now. They make it to the huge central meeting room before he finds his tongue.  
　　  
　　“Gentlemen,” Champ greets. “Please, sit.”  
　　  
　　Whisky and Tequila are already sitting at the long table.  
　　  
　　“We are a go,” Champ says, and Eggsy manages to only half roll his eyes.  
　　  
　　Agent Whisky elaborates, “I finished the set up for your new building. You’ve got the deed for the ground floor building as a retailers, and planning permission to expand the cellar and renovate for a distillery. ”  
　　  
　　She pushes the documents across the table.  
　　  
　　“I hand selected some toys for you boys,” Tequila says, giving Harry honest-to-god _finger guns_. “While you get yourself back on your feet.”  
　　  
　　“We’ve also got a ground team prepped to go with you, to help with the excavation efforts,” Champ adds, leaning back in his chair. “The techies have run basic analysis on the visuals, and we think some of the underground system might be intact.”  
　　  
　　Eggsy sucks in air through his teeth. It’s not much, but it’s a start.  
　　  
　　“Thanks, pal,” he says, more on autopilot than anything. “If there’s ever anything we can do for you-”  
　　  
　　“Welp,” he pops. “Now that you mention it...”  
　　  
　　Harry’s eye narrows. “What did you have in mind?”  
　　  
　　This is it, Eggsy thinks. This is where the Terms and Conditions come in, the _We’ll scratch yours if you scratch ours_. If something’s too good to be true, it’ a con, his mother used to say.  
　　  
　　It’s almost laughable, then, when Champ only leans forward to slap Tequila on the back and say-  
　　  
　　“Take this one with y’all, and teach him some manners.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a super long time, guys, I'm sorry. I hit a road block half way through and it's taken literally month of tweaking until I was remotely happy with the flow of this chapter. Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> (Also, I have a Tumblr under the same name if anyone's interested.)

　　Whisky has all the logistics in place for them.  
　　   
　　Direct flight from Kentucky to London, then drop by the new shop with a few basic short term equipment supplies before heading over to the mansion site with the Statesman engineering team.   
　　  
　　She also throws in a young tech support called Chloe Harris to set them up with a sub-server on the Statesman databases, what with all the former Kingsman systems still being unresponsive.  
　　  
　　It’ll mean they have two way free-flow of information, which in theory means twice the eyes on one set of problems. In practise, well. They’ll see.  
　　  
　　Eggsy is heading out to the cars for stage three of the journey when he notices Harry, resting on the edge of a table with a far away look on face. There’s an already open bottle of scotch behind him.  
　　  
　　“Not seein’ butterflies again are you?”  
　　  
　　“No, just ghosts,” Harry says. He stares down the empty space in the room for a moment longer, then sighs, turns to face Eggsy. “I’m going to stay here, I think. The place needs some organization, and Ms Harris might need some assistance.”  
　　  
　　“Oh,” Eggsy says. “Are you feeling okay, Harry?”  
　　  
　　“Yes, quite,” he says, vaguely. Then, more authoritative, “Can you handle this?”  
　　  
　　Eggsy hadn’t really considered that he might be doing this alone. He honestly doesn’t know. But that’s about as close to an order as Harry’s ever gotten, so Eggsy just nods, “Course,” and goes.

　　//  
　　  
　　The heavens open 10 minutes into the drive.  
　　  
　　Steve - the American driver, who is coping with neither handling a manual car, nor driving on the left - is not impressed by the autumn weather, and starts cursing loudly and explicitly.  
　　  
　　Usually Eggsy would gleefully engage, because the rowdy, jovial Americans are such a contrast to some of the stuffy, elitist Kingsman that he never really got used to dealing with. Now, it just makes his chest ache a little. He misses reliable old Pete, who’d been his driver for 6 months and never once said more than three words at a time before he’d been stabbed in the neck.  
　　  
　　Fuck.  
　　  
　　So, so many of those people are dead. Not just the stuck-up old dudes that looked down on him. Replacement Arthur had been only slightly better than Chester King, but Gareth had been a former cycling prodigy who had kept him company in the gym, and Gawain had a wicked sense of humour. He’d worked with all these guys, bled with them. Bedivere, Lamorak, Kay...  
　　  
　　Roxy.  
　　  
　　Fuck.  
　　  
　　He hasn’t thought about it, really. Pushed it down and away, because it wasn’t safe to break down so far from home. Now he’s back on native soil, and doesn’t feel any more prepared to handle anything.  
　　  
　　If he had imagined his long overdue breakdown, it would’ve been with Tilde by his side or Harry at his back, not surrounded by a bunch of strangers.   
　　  
　　It almost makes him itch to call Tilde back, for all that he’s dreading that conversation. Before, back before all this shit, she would listen to him vent til he dropped - about Arthur’s passive aggressive comments and Merlin’s exhausting drills and Roxy always ditching him on missions to flirt with pretty girls.   
　　  
　　That Tilde would listen to him patiently, then kiss him until he forgot all about his issues. But then, that Tilde had also dumped him for wanting to postpone a serious conversation for a less mission sensitive time, and he still hasn’t really processed that yet, so.  
　　  
　　He can keep a lid on it a little longer.  
　　  
　　The drive takes significantly longer than the bullet train used to, but the oppressive emptiness in his ribcage hasn’t eased any when they pull past the woods on the edge of the mansion grounds.   
　　  
　　It’s getting dark, the sun setting directly across from the driveway like it always does. Even in the sepia light filtering through the thick cloud, it feels wrong. The silhouette of the building is entirely missing.  
　　  
　　Jessica, the ground recovery team leader and most butch woman he’s ever met, complete with crew cut and green canvas jacket, shuffles her paperwork in the passenger seat. They’ve got all the documents to pass them off as the official recovery and restoration crew.  
　　  
　　Looking out at the flattened landscape, Eggsy can’t imagine where they’ll even start.  
　　  
　　About 20ft out from where the mansion’s private road ran is a hastily erected construction fence perimeter, the car rumbles to a stop by a single guard in a portacabin. Jess starts sweet talking the guy with technical construction babble which Eggsy has zero interest in, but he needs to move, needs to do something, so he gets out the car anyway.  
　　  
　　Security McGuardface doesn’t even glance at him.  
　　  
　　He approaches the barrier, can just make out where the road should be but isn’t.   
　　  
　　In all honestly, Eggsy was never a fan of the mansion itself. All marbled extravagance and gilded edges, the very definition of old-money. But the grounds, the practical underground levels. That’s where he was made.  
　　  
　　Where he met Rox and JB. Where Merlin eventually warmed up to him during his constant visits to Harry’s hospital bed.   
　　  
　　This is where he focused all that potential that Harry saw in him when no one else could, not even him. Where he emerged from his chrysalis with newly grown wings, and could soar above the dirt people had dumped on his his whole damn life.  
　　  
　　For lack of anything better to lash out at, he kicks at the fence once. Twice. Mr Incompetent Security doesn’t even look up at the rattle of jarred metal, too distracted by Jess’ papers.  
　　  
　　Scaling the fence is probably not the next logical step, but fuck it.   
　　  
　　It feels good, the pull of his core muscles, the stretch in his back and shoulders as he heaves himself high enough to get a foot planted for leverage. He pushes up and off, braces for the impact of landing, but he realises too late how steep the slope is.  
　　  
　　Soft, loose soil gives under the balls of his feet and his ankle turns. The thick wet squelch follows him down a good 20 feet into the darkness, the slick mud soaking through his borrowed suit pants. Eggsy scrambles wildly for a handhold, snags the meat of his hand on something sharp and clings reflexively. The incline evens out slightly, enough for him to stumble to a stop.  
　　  
　　Every physical twinge and ache fades to accommodate how far his heart drops.  
　　  
　　It’s even worse than he imagined.  
　　  
　　Whatever Statesman scans had indicated the substructure might be intact must be horribly mistaken.  
　　  
　　He’s standing in a literal sinkhole, at least two stories deep and what must be a good mile wide. It feels like a similar one opens up in his gut.  
　　  
　　To his right, there are vague noises of crew set up - shouting, heavy lifting and basic recon. There’s no immediate sign of anything useful here, in this particular spot, but he stands and stares into the gloom for a long time.  
　　  
　　Long enough for Jess to pick her way over the debris. Her jacket is soaked through so much it’s blacker than black, darker than the shadows.  
　　  
　　“Trip over your feet?” she tries, and he must look a state because that’s the closest to gentle he’s heard her sound.   
　　  
　　He shrugs like he isn’t smeared head to toe in muck. “No.”  
　　  
　　“Well,” she presses on, less patient now. She chucks a bit of paper at him. “We found a couple anomalies on the geophys. Metal boxes, probably panic rooms. If you’re buddies follow any kind of self destruction protocol, they should be close to the top while most of the rubble compresses down into the substructures.”  
　　  
　　And... “What?”  
　　  
　　She looks at him like he’s simple. “It’s common backup procedure. In the case of a large scale attack, the structure is designed to collapse in on itself to keep valuable assets undiscovered in the aftermath.” She gestures vaguely around. “S’why it’s so flat down here.”  
　　  
　　Just the idea makes Eggsy sick. But he knew Chester King, he can only imagine the callous leanings of his predecessors. They wouldn’t care about human casualties. People can be replaced; priceless, experimental assets can not.  
　　  
　　Fuck them.   
　　  
　　Fuck them for ever thinking this is okay.  
　　  
　　He fights to keep his hands steady, pretends to tap his glasses comm, nods vaguely at Jess and lies through his teeth in the voice that isn’t really his, “I’ve got other matters to attend to. I’ll leave this in your capable hands.”  
　　  
　　//  
　　  
　　The stink of the estate has never been more welcome.  
　　  
　　It’s the only place in the world he can trudge up soaked to the bone in an ill fitting, mud covered suit and not be judged for it.  
　　  
　　Eggsy’d run the 2 and a bit miles off of official Kingsman land, found a small pub and then jacked a car. So sue him, it’s been a shitty night.   
　　  
　　The suit isn’t really any drier for his effort, with how thick and fast the rain is coming down while he’s stood on the fucking doorstep, dawdling.  
　　  
　　He knocks on the door like a gentlemen, even if he does look like the shit on somebody’s shoe. It’s pretty fuckin’ rude of him to ambush his mum like this anyway, the least he can do is wait at the door.  
　　  
　　When there’s no sign of movement, he tries again. Maybe she’s in bed, it was stupid of him to come all this way in the middle of the nigh--  
　　  
　　The door opens a crack, and she says firmly, “I ain’t interested Stanley, fuck off.”  
　　  
　　“Whoa, language!” Eggsy laughs, and the door slams into the wall with how fast she shoves it open.   
　　  
　　“Eggsy,” she breathes, then throws her arms around his neck heedless of the filth.  
　　  
　　It’s been years since she was so physical with him, what with Dean sneering over her shoulder and muttering about gymnastics and hugs making boys soft and gay.  
　　  
　　But before that, back when it was just him and his mum trying to live with a medal and a memory...  
　　  
　　The nostalgia breaks down any and all bravado he’d managed to summon on the way over. His chin is quivering against her shoulder, and it won’t stop no matter how hard he bites down on his tongue.   
　　  
　　She ushers him inside, shushing him the whole way. Sits him on the sofa, perches on the edge on the coffee table and says in her softest tone, “How do I make it better, babe?”  
　　  
　　“M’not a baby, mum,” he insists; she raises an eyebrow and hands him a tissue. He realises his cheeks are wet and hot, and concedes. “You can’t. I wish you could but--”  
　　  
　　Eggsy’s voice gives out half way. Her eyebrows scrunch up, but she stays quiet, only making gentle soothing sounds. His mum is the best in the world, swear down. She rubs his shoulders and mumbles nonsense while he gets a fucking grip.  
　　  
　　“You make it better just being here, mum,” he grits out. He’s voice is raw, like he’s on 40-a-day.   
　　  
　　She rubs his arms a few more times, tries to smiles at him, then drops her gaze right to his gored up hand.   
　　  
　　“Shit,” she whispers. “You should’a said something you pratt. Lemme grab the first aid kit.”  
　　  
　　She rushes off to the kitchen, rattles some cupboard doors, and comes back holding a damp dishcloth and a small plastic case that’s the off beige colour of aged plastic. It’s the same kit she’s had since he was a toddler prone to scrapping his knees falling off walls he shouldn’t have climbed in the first place, and if he isn’t careful he’s gonna cry again.  
　　  
　　Out comes the antiseptic cream and a roll of bandages. She tuts quietly as she wipes the dried blood from his skin, carefully avoiding the open slice in the centre. It’s weird, almost tense, sitting in his mums living room and not knowing what to say.  
　　  
　　To fill the silence, he asks, “How’s you’s?”  
　　  
　　And because Michelle Unwin is an absolute fucking gift, she doesn’t call him out on the diversion. She just looks at him for a second, in that Motherly way that says I see your shit, son. You can’t avoid it forever, and keeps dabbing his wound.  
　　  
　　“Still going, yeah? Been worse. Been better. Problem with a reputation round ‘ere is people think they know what you’s into even if you ain’t anymore.”  
　　  
　　“This Stanley giving you hassle?” Eggsy know’s he doesn’t exactly come across as threatening right now, face puffy from tears with his mum cleaning up his scrapes, but if some dick is harassing his mother he’ll break the fucker’s kneecaps, Mafia style.  
　　  
　　Michelle seems to pick up some of that instinct, even as she takes care of him. “Nah, babe. Just a dealer thinks he’s got a shoe-in buyer now Dean’s gone. But I ain’t been using, I swear. Joined a group and everything, when Dais is at nursery. Oh! Dais, she’s gonna be so happy to see you! You’re not gonna believe--”  
　　  
　　She waxes poetic as she works, pulls out some tweezers and roots into the meat of his hand. “Oh, gosh, she’s grown, so much, you just wait--”  
　　  
　　Eggsy grits his teeth hard, tries not to pull his hand away and it seems like an age before her digging unearths a sliver of something and she drops it on the table to reach for the bandages.  
　　  
　　 “--you know only this last weekend she--”  
　　  
　　The tiny shard of off-green tile glitters at him from the table. It’s from the bullet train station, which is buried under tonnes of soil and rubble and fucking bodies and it’s entirely on him for not checking the back fucking seat.  
　　  
　　“And well, you know the neighbours round here--”  
　　  
　　“I’m a spy, mum.”  
　　  
　　“--she- What?”  
　　  
　　That’s... Not what he’d meant to say. Still, in for a penny.  
　　  
　　“I... There’s this agency. Independent from the government. Kingsman. They got me out when the cops wanted to send me down for stealing Rottie’s car.”  
　　  
　　She manages to sound remarkably calm when she says, “You didn’t come home for 10 months. We thought you were in prison.”  
　　  
　　“Longest job interview ever, I swear.”  
　　  
　　She looks almost like she wants to smile for a second, but doesn’t quite manage it.  
　　  
　　“I figured it was military, when that girl rang about the phone’s going shitting mental last year. Army or,” she rubs at her own arms self-consciously. “I know I freaked out last time, with the Marines. I thought you just didn’t wanna tell me.”  
　　  
　　“I’ve wanted to tell you the whole fuckin’ time, mum, honestly. But it weren’t safe.”   
　　  
　　Eggsy pauses for a second, not sure how much he really wants to get into this.  
　　  
　　But she deserves to know. He’s put them in more danger than they could understand. Just the faint notion that she and Daisy might have been in the house when it went up in smoke knocks him sideways.  
　　  
　　Finally he says, “It still isn’t.”  
　　  
　　Michelle’s face struggles for a moment, flits from distraught to furious before settling somewhere in between. She takes a deep breath, and another.  
　　  
　　“It’s late,” she says, in that way Eggsy imagines all mums have, that way that turns a fact into a show of affection. “We’ll talk about this in the morning, yeah?”  
　　  
　　“Yeah, everything, mum. Swear down.”  
　　  
　　She pushes his fringe back softly, kisses his head like she did when he was little.  
　　  
　　“Come on, love. You’re beds already made up.”  
　　  
　　//

　　He dreams of Roxy again.  
　　  
　　She’s herself this time, in her plaid jumpsuit from training, hair pulled back in a neat ponytail.   
　　  
　　The back of the plane comes into focus only as Merlin appears with Giselle’s killer leg prosthetics and Charlie’s huge, unwieldy arm. He’s calling out names.   
　　  
　　“Lee.”  
　　  
　　A man Eggsy only really remembers from old photographs goes first, wearing his red beret and army fatigues. He smiles at Eggsy, then Lee Unwin opens the pressure door at the back of the plane and is sucked out into the air stream.   
　　  
　　“Keith.”  
　　  
　　Lamorak cheerfully strolls to the open hatch, throws a jolly little salute, and jumps. He isn’t wearing a helmet.   
　　  
　　“Henry.”  
　　  
　　Kay seems wary, but goes.  
　　  
　　“Peter.”  
　　  
　　Gareth hesitates until Merlin snaps his huge metal fingers.  
　　   
　　“Gordon.”  
　　  
　　Bedevere refuses, so Chester King pushes him. His neck explodes into shimmering purple, and he falls out too.  
　　  
　　“Roxy.”  
　　  
　　Rox clips her headgear into place and they’re at the ramp. Eggsy isn’t speaking, but he can hear his own voice echoing around them.  
　　  
　　“Roxy, just stop fucking about. I’m here, yeah? Now or never, Jump.”  
　　  
　　Eggsy bites his lips together, keeps his mouth closed tight, hears himself say “No matter what happens, I got you, alright,” and Roxy jumps.   
　　  
　　He doesn’t even think about jumping after her, he just does it.   
　　  
　　Eggsy doesn’t have a parachute on, isn’t even wearing a flight suit, but Rox is suddenly fully equipped. The green expanse of the mansion grounds rushes up towards them.  
　　  
　　He knows how to handle this, on muscle memory alone. Spreads himself out to slow the fall, gets as close to Roxy as he can and lunges.   
　　  
　　Only he wraps his legs around her and pulls her tab, and its not a parachute at all, it’s the huge atmospheric balloons from the space suit. Deflated, they don’t float, only drag them down, and when he looks, the green, green grass gapes open into an empty back void and they fall right in.  
　　  
　　The light fades out, but they keep falling and falling.   
　　  
　　Silence echoes around them, in the weightless limbo of free fall, and then the world shakes and an alarm blares so loudly he jerks away from where he’s clung onto Roxy’s pack and he finally hits the--  
　　  
　　//  
　　  
　　-- bedroom carpet.  
　　  
　　His phone is ringing on the bedside table, Eggsy watches blearily as is vibrates itself along the edge. He grabs it just before it falls on his face, answers it without looking at the ID.  
　　  
　　“’lo?”  
　　  
　　“Eggsy, darling, is that you?”  
　　  
　　Oh no. He’s not prepared for this.  
　　  
　　“Tilde, babe.”  
　　  
　　“Finally! I’ve been calling for weeks!”  
　　  
　　It so, so good to hear her voice after so long, but it also makes his stomach knot up. He isn’t ready.  
　　  
　　“I know, sorry love. Work’s been--”  
　　  
　　“Work, work, work,” Her voice is high and fast. Great, he’s pissed her off already. “It’s always work with you.”  
　　  
　　“It’s kind of an important job,” he snaps back. A headache is drumming it’s way up his temples. He’s tired of having this conversation. “I’m busy, what did you want?”  
　　  
　　She seems to realise this is devolving quickly, and takes a deliberate pause. When she speaks again, her tone is light and playful, if slightly forced.  
　　  
　　“I thought it might cheer you up to start planning the wedding, is all.”  
　　  
　　And, “You fuckin’ what?”  
　　  
　　Tilde laughs at him, and it almost sounds genuine through his cloud of absolute panic. Somehow in the last few weeks, he’d managed to convince himself she hadn’t been serious.  
　　  
　　“I could hear you, on the video,” she titters at him patiently. “You said you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me.”  
　　  
　　“I did,” he forces out.  
　　  
　　“Did?”  
　　  
　　“Do. I do. I love you,” he says, because he’s sure that’s still true. But... “But shit, I didn’t mean like, right now. We got a whole heap of shite to sort out first, babe.”  
　　  
　　The phone is silent for so long, he pulls it back to check it didn’t cut out. It hasn’t.   
　　  
　　When she finally speaks, her voice is flat and cold, “Like what?”  
　　  
　　What an absolutely fucking ridiculous question.  
　　  
　　“Like how I’d be a prince but also a spy?” He’s fully awake now, and probably shouting. “How do I do my job if everyone knows my face? How do you explain it if I kick it on a mission?” He might be getting slightly histerical. “’Oh, yeah, Prince Gary died in an unfortunate and totally accidental shotgun fight in a secret government bunker in New Guinea, whoopsie daisy’. How does that fuckin work, love?”  
　　  
　　Tilde titters at him again, cold and sterile, like fingernails on glass.. “You wouldn’t be a prince, you’d be the crown consort. And you’ll be quitting, obviously.”  
　　  
　　“I’ve saved the world,” Eggsy’s vaguely aware that he sounds like a child. The point still stands. “Twice.”  
　　  
　　“Exactly!” she says. “Surely you’ve done your part, Eggsy. You’ve sacrificed enough!”  
　　  
　　Silence follows. Ten seconds, twenty. Eggsy’s throat struggles to open enough for air, and the faces of everybody that’s died this past year flash before his eyes; the Knights, the civilians, and tens upon tens of support staff gone just for working in the wrong building.  
　　  
　　 Miriam down in R&D, who was only there as a favour to her Uncle. Jakey P. in recon, who thinks he’s street because he’s from Harrow and not Kensington. Mo and Sian, who worked on communication tech, and somehow always managed to be arguing about the best restaurants in Kent even though neither of them lived there.  
　　  
　　Brandon. Merlin. Roxy.   
　　  
　　All dead.   
　　  
　　Eggsy hasn’t sacrificed shit.  
　　  
　　“Not even close,” he chokes out, finally.  
　　  
　　“So what?” She isn’t really shouting now. “You’re going to kill yourself for people who’ll never even know?”  
　　  
　　“That’s sort of the point, love.”  
　　  
　　“Why?” she asks, weakly. “Why does it have to be you?”  
　　  
　　Because there’s nobody else anymore.  
　　  
　　“Because this is how I make a difference.”  
　　  
　　Tilde sighs, and it vibrates loudly down the line. For a moment, he lets himself believe the middle-ground has been reached, that this is the needed reprieve. That they can say ‘this isn’t a great time, but we can come back to it later’. Then she says, scathingly;  
　　  
　　“And how often will making a difference involved sleeping with other people?”  
　　  
　　It’s like a bucket of ice water on his already frayed nerves, and he’s immediately on the defensive.  
　　  
　　So, alright, Clara might have been his first honey-pot, but they were all trained for that sort of thing as and when deemed necessary. He’d tried to do the considerate thing and Tilde was going to throw it in his face again and again.  
　　  
　　“Sometimes, yeah,” he settles on. Then, because it’s been niggling at him for months, “Why are you only okay with that if we’re married?”  
　　  
　　Tilde almost never sounds undignified, but she outright snorts. “Are you serious? Being in a committed relationship makes a difference, if I know you’re coming home to me--”  
　　  
　　“Is that not what we are? Were.” he adds, spitefully, “Because technically you dumped me three months ago. Either we’re committed or we ain’t, marriage don’t change that.”  
　　  
　　“You call it committed when you’re sleeping around for information like a--” she makes a frustrated noise that means she’s struggling to remember the English word for something, and Eggsy goes numb in anticipation. He knows exactly what she’s going to say before she does. “--Like some whore!”  
　　  
　　Even expected, it’s like a gut punch knocks him outta his own body, and he hangs there stupidly while The Voice says, “Nice talking with you, Your Majesty,” and hangs up. Then he comes back to himself with a sickening jolt, and grabs the bin just in time to spit up bile.   
　　  
　　He hadn’t eaten again yesterday.  
　　  
　　//  
　　  
　　Eggsy tries to scrub himself clean with an old towel he finds in his bedroom. He doesn’t want to talk to his mum in this state, but he also feels suddenly dirty on the inside of his skin.  
　　  
　　It’s not like he’s ashamed of what he’s done to get by. But he ain’t exactly proud either, and enough people have made their opinions clear over the years.  
　　  
　　Dean; “Alight, Muggsy, You little slut, got a job for ya.”   
　　  
　　His goons; “You’ll find another rent boy down on Smith Street.”  
　　  
　　The coppers; “Most boys your age are into the drugs, what you doing sucking cock for a living you little puff.”  
　　  
　　They used to joke about it in the Marines, what they’d give to have a hooker come visit, what they’d do to one. He kept his fucking mouth shut and laughed along with the rest.  
　　  
　　Point is, he knows what people think of the kind of things he’s done for money. He knows how it lowers their opinion of him further.  
　　  
　　Except Harry.  
　　  
　　The thought comes unbidden, and he’s not exactly sure Harry knows about that shit anyway, but his words ring loud and clear in Eggsy’s head;  
　　  
　　“True nobility is being superior to your former self.”  
　　  
　　Probably didn’t mean former whores, but it’s a comfort all the same.  
　　  
　　Just maybe, Harry wouldn’t think less of him if he did know. Hell, he probably already knew, the sneaky super-spy bastard, and just neglected to mention it out of politeness.  
　　  
　　Feeling a little more himself, Eggsy tosses to towel on his bed and pulls his civvies out of his wardrobe. It feels good to wear his own threads again after months of borrowed Statesman denim and a single fitted suit.  
　　  
　　Best get this out of the way. He takes a breath, straightens his shoulders, and opens the door.  
　　  
　　His mum is sat at the kitchen table, giggling into her coffee, and across from her sits Agent Tequila because why the fuck not. It’s one of them messed up kinda weeks.  
　　  
　　The TV hums in the background, some newsreaders chatter the only sound in the room while they both look over at him, and the strained smile and raised eyebrows respectively tell him they overheard a significant portion of his argument just now.  
　　  
　　Fan-fucking-tastic.  
　　  
　　But before his mood can properly curdle, Daisy come barrelling in from nowhere, screaming, “Eggsy, Eggsy.”  
　　  
　　He scoops her up and squeezes her tight. He’s missed her so fucking much.  
　　  
　　“There’s my Dias,” he coos at her, but she grabs his face in her chubby hands and scowls at him.  
　　  
　　“Where were ya?” God, her speech has come on loads. He’s been gone way too long. “You missed my birf-day.”  
　　  
　　“I know, flower, I’m sorry,” he makes an over the top frowny face until she laughs at him. “What did you get, then? Anything nice?”  
　　  
　　Daisy wriggles until he sets her down, the pelts off full speed to her and Michelle’s shared bedroom. Eggsy moves towards the table.  
　　  
　　“Morning, mum,” he squeezes her shoulder gently in greeting. Nods at Tequila, who’s wearing his cowboy hat and shades indoors like a prick, “Chuck.”  
　　  
　　“Mornin’ sunshine,” Tequila smirks at him, then beams at Michelle again. “I was just getting acquainted with this delightful little lady,” he tips his hat at her and winks, “who absolutely cannot be your mama. She’s far too pretty.”  
　　  
　　His mum giggles again, blushes to the roots of her hair, and Eggsy can not deal with this shit on an empty stomach. He sticks some bread in the toaster and clicks the kettle on.  
　　  
　　“Eggsy, babe, are all your work friends so charming?”  
　　  
　　“He ain’t really--”  
　　  
　　“Oh absolutely not, ma-am,” Tequila bulldozes over him. “Some of us are more blessed than others”  
　　  
　　Eggsy’s gonna puke.  
　　  
　　“Most of them have the sense not to turn up unannounced at home addresses.”  
　　  
　　“Hey, now,” Tequila says, holding his hands up mock offended. “I came on all professional.” He puts on a really awful English accent. “Good morning madam, I’m looking for my colleague.”  
　　  
　　Eggsy buries his face in his hands. “Oh my fuckin god.”  
　　  
　　“Like I said,” Michelle laughs. “Very charming.”  
　　  
　　“Yeah, a real Dick van Dyke. Not even Daisy’s gonna buy that with the cowbody hat, pal.”  
　　  
　　Speak of the devil, Dais runs back in, takes a bow and makes a ‘ta-da’ noise.  
　　  
　　She’s wearing a blue tutu over a full body Hulk costume, complete with plastic heels and a tiara, and Eggsy tries not to laugh. Going off the looks on her face, Daisy wouldn’t appreciate his humour.   
　　  
　　Instead he uses all his training to keep his voice steady.  
　　  
　　“Oh wow, my hero!” He leans down close, and whispers, “I though the hulk liked purple though?”  
　　  
　　Daisy thinks for a minute, then seems to agree because she wanders back to her room at a more relaxed pace, shimmying out of the skirt and chucking it aside as she goes.  
　　  
　　“She big into drag queen superheroes?” Eggsy asks his mum. His toast pops, still pasty white, so he clicks it back down. Nice to know Daisy’s taste in food hasn’t changed at least.  
　　  
　　“They’re princesses,” she answers, vaguely. Then she’s patting his shoulder, gesturing at the telly. “Oh, here, look.”  
　　  
　　There’s an overhead shot of what Eggsy instantly recognises as the mansion, panning across the grounds before zooming in on the little guards box, where Jess and her team can be seen bringing in heavy duty machinery. The Headline pops up, “Gas explosion heritage site reconstruction underway”.  
　　  
　　“I take it this is something to do with you,” his mum says, resignedly. Eggsy shrugs. “They said it was a suspected terrorist attack, what with thirteen different buildings going up at once across the whole flippin’ country.”  
　　  
　　The picture flicks over to a still shot of Harry’s house, a caved in hollow between two mostly in tact buildings. Even without looking, he can feel his mum tense up, and it doesn’t ease at all when a few other civilian homes he doesn’t know flick across the screen. She must have been devastated.  
　　  
　　“Amateurs,” Eggsy scoffs, as casual as he can. “Bet they couldn’t find the link.”   
　　  
　　Michelle laughs, her shoulder drop a little, “Oh, yeah, babe, I’m sure you’re the bees fuckin knees.” She glances over at Tequila, embarrassed, “Pardon my French.”  
　　  
　　But Tequila is frowning, tapping his glasses. It takes him a minute to notice Eggsy’s looking at him.  
　　  
　　“Hate to ruin the family reunion, but we got a problem.”  
　　  
　　Tequila swipes his finger along the glasses arm, ear to lens, and his HUD hologram flickers to life right in the middle of the kitchen table. It’s Chloe, the tech support at the new shop. She’s looking a touch hysterical, hair sticking out of her bun at all angles, eyes red rimmed and wide.   
　　  
　　“--in the office, didn’t come out all night,” she’s gesturing wildly with her hands. “ And I know ‘cause I was working. But then I had a breakthrough with the communication this morning and decided I deserved a power nap, and when I woke up he was just gone.”  
　　  
　　Eggsy’s guts go cold.   
　　  
　　“Who’s gone, Chloe?” he asks, even though he’s almost certain he knows the answer.  
　　  
　　“You’re friend,” she says, “ Butterfly guy.”  
　　  
　　“Butterfly Guy?” his mum laughs, “Sounds like one of Daisy’s superheroes.”  
　　  
　　“Sorry mum,” Eggsy plants a quick kiss on her cheek. “Love you. I’ll be back later, yeah?”  
　　  
　　He grabs his jacket, shoves on his trainers and leaves the flat stinking of burnt toast.  
　　  
　　//  
　　  
　　Eggsy heads to the new shop first, just to check the scene.  
　　  
　　But Chloe is true to her word, it seems.  
　　  
　　There’s a couple shelled out computers in the hallway, wires and circuitry trailing away into the main server room, and a creased looking sleeping bag on a folded out sofa bed. The next room over is the largest office.   
　　  
　　Eggsy doesn’t know how much of the set up was the previous owners and how much is Statesman flair, but the whole room is one big power move.  
　　  
　　A fuck off desk made out of dark, expensive looking solid wood sits in front of the biggest window Eggsy’s ever seen, which looks out onto Savile Row like a panoramic photo. The entire right wall is roof to floor bookcases the same wood as the desk, stacked with leather bound books and ugly minimalist ornaments that reek of old money.  
　　  
　　On the left is a single fancy looking alcohol cabinet, the decanter on top mostly empty. The wooden panelling of the wall is sticky, and there’s shattered glass on the carpet.   
　　  
　　Looks like cool, composed don’t-wanna-talk-about-it Harry Hart got pissed, got angry and got gone.  
　　  
　　Dickhead.  
　　  
　　Still. Eggsy should find him, before he does something even more stupid.  
　　  
　　He heads straight out, down the other end of Savile Row to the cordoned off wreckage of the original shop. There’s already a massive ‘SOLD’ sign propped up outside, and isn’t that just London in a nutshell. He needs to bring that up with Jess and the team.   
　　  
　　He tries to stop, pretends to be a tourist examining the rubble, but a woman barges into him and he gets a mouthful of dark hair and silk scarf. It’s impossible to linger with the crowds of shoppers passing, and he doesn’t see Harry anywhere, anyway.  
　　  
　　Eggsy tries Harry’s phone, but it clicks straight on to answer machine.  
　　  
　　The only other place he can think of is Harry’s house.   
　　  
　　He goes there next, not particularly getting his hopes up. It’s a pretty poor last ditch effort; Harry might be drunk and angry, but he’s not stupid. He isn’t likely to hang around places that are on his personal records.  
　　  
　　The street is quiet when he arrives, as it almost always was when he lived here, just a single woman turning the corner at the other end. The houses on either side are cocooned in scaffolding, and ‘for sale’ signs. It almost makes the gaping space missable.  
　　  
　　Almost.  
　　  
　　Eggsy does a casual walk up the street, then back. Both building seem empty, no curtains or light on in either. On his third pass, he ducks under the scaffold to examine the door. No sign of forced entry but then, would Harry leave any?  
　　  
　　The sound of highheels on the pavement force him to back off and re-evaluate. He crosses back to the other side of the road while a young woman in a tan coat and an old lady headscarf click-clacks past.   
　　  
　　She glances at him once by accident, then again more deliberately. Eggsy gives her a little wave, which probably doesn’t make him look less suspicious. He kind of wishes he’d worn a suit, he’d have looked less like he was casing the place.  
　　  
　　The woman rounds the corner, finally, and he dashes back to the other house before she has time to call the cops. Nothing there either.  
　　  
　　Eggsy plonks himself on the front steps. It’s almost worth just breaking in for fucking real at this point, just to be sure. The police won’t properly shift their arses for a suspicious character in an unoccupied street; he’d have time.  
　　  
　　He rubs his eyes, looks to the sky for inspiration and catches movement in the ginnel between the houses directly across from him - a rectangle of light in the darkness, a phone.   
　　  
　　The tail end of a silk scarf vanishes into the shadow.  
　　  
　　She’s tailing him.  
　　  
　　“Hey,” he shouts, and her the click of her shoes echoes away. She’s running.  
　　  
　　He bolts after her.  
　　  
　　Whoever she is, she’s fast. She sticks to the back streets, zigzags them easily, but this is his fuckin’ playground and he’s gaining on her.  
　　  
　　Female, brunette, slightly taller than him in heels. She’s not pinging any alarms, but she’s been following him most of the morning. She’s gotta be onto something.  
　　  
　　She ducks between a small crowd of people and into a deserted narrow alley. Her phone is still clutched to her ear, she must have outside input too.  
　　  
　　The woman whips round another corner, onto another cobbled back street only this one is a dead end, and old archway long since bricked up.   
　　  
　　“Ha,” he whoops, “Fuck you, dickhead.”  
　　  
　　But she just calmly turns around, arms spread wide, then kneels down. She puts her hands above her head, phone still running, and beams up at him.  
　　  
　　“Eggsy, thank god, it’s really you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys. Kudos are always appreciated, but if you have a second comments and feedback really make any writers day. Thanks a bunch :)


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